I hear a fiddle and am transported back in time. Once again I am a small girl, sitting on the arm of my grandfather's chair, so in love with the white haired man who plays his fiddle for me.
My grandfather plays songs he learned in the old country. He closes his eyes, and his bow draws out the notes. Sometimes slow and mournful; sometimes fast and spirited. I sit and listen enraptured.
In a couple of years I learn the dances of the country of my decendancy and my grandfather plays those old, up beat tunes while I bouce around his living room; I'm dancing. His eyes wide open now, he watches with a big smile on his face. One, two three. One two three. Toe, heel, knee, kick... In his tiny living room, just my white haired grandfather, the fiddle; the dance and me. It's not a very good dance, I've only just begun to learn. It will take years before I learn the dance well and win many awards for my efforts, yet he smiles just the same.
Life was not always kind to my grandfather. He came to Canada alone leaving his wife and first born child behind. It took eight years before he could afford to bring them over to be with him. He lived his life as a poor dirt farmer. Supporting his family off the land. Never having much, but I suppose enough.
The war took its toll on my grandfather too. Although it took many years, eventually both his legs would be amputated at the knee, the result of poisonous gases he breathed while fighting in the war. Losing his limbs was so hard for him. I remember so clearly his determination to walk into my cousins wedding on his own power. It was a long flight of stairs down to the reception hall but he determined, one way or another, he was going to make down those stairs and to his seat by himself. I stood at the bottom of those stairs watching him make his way down. He did it. I was so proud of him. I don't know whose smile was bigger, his or mine.
At my grandfather's funeral I read a poem I had written for him. I don't know what ever happened to that poem. I know I burried it with him and I don't know that I've seen it since. I ended the poem saying "When we meet in heaven, I won't run ahead. Rather, I'll stand and watch you as you run to me instead." I felt so grateful that on the other side, my grandfather could walk once more. That's how much he seemed to miss his legs.
In my heart I know he is with me. He walks with me everyday. But today as I listen to the fiddle and feel myself transported back in time, I weep. I weep tears of mourning. I weep tears of love. The love a wee girl sitting on the arm of her grandfather's chair, enraptured by his music. I weep the tears of grown child, now 29 years old who misses her grandfather and his fiddle so.
My grandfather has been gone for 11 years now. I keep thinking one year I'll get over it. Guess it's not this year either.
Dido, in case you've forgotten, or if you never really knew, I want to tell you, I need to tell you: I love you.
I sure hope there are fiddles in heaven 'cause when I get there, the first thing I want to do is sit beside you-- I want to sit beside you and look upon you with loving eyes. And once again I will know rapture as you play your fiddle for me.
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